


Ashes to Ashes

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: smallfandomfest, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-26
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone can survive the zombie apocalypse, it's John McClane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes to Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's SmallFandomFest Community, for the prompt "close call". Prompt submitted by ozsaur.

_"…and cancellations of flights in and out of New York persist as a thin layer of volcanic ash continues to fall throughout the eastern United States. Meanwhile, Pentagon officials have announced that attempts to raise communications with most European nations remains unsuccessful, while military flights also remain grounded. Closer to home, the standoff at the Bank of America has ended. Several reports indicate that gunfire was heard inside the bank and while police have confirmed multiple casualties, we're still awaiting word on the status of the hostages. In the NASDAQ today--"_

John viciously twists the dial on the radio, cutting the broadcaster off with a squeal as he careens to a stop. The plaza already has the look of organized bedlam that he recognizes from every major crime scene: the crush of police cars and emergency vehicles parked haphazardly along the perimeter; the ever-present news corps with their coiffed hair and brightly painted lips, mouthing pseudo-concern to the cameras; the cacophony of noise from the walkie-talkies and the slap of feet on concrete and the murmurs of the crowd; the press of onlookers against the sawhorses, craning their necks eagerly for a glimpse of blood and gore. It makes him sick.

He pushes his way through the blue and whites, shoves his badge in the face of anyone who tries to stop him. Finally makes his way through the wide double glass doors and into the chaos of the bank, shoes crunching through the shattered glass, avoiding the long ribbon of blood that streak the floor.

The noise, if anything, is louder inside, voices echoing in the vast expanse of the marbled lobby, blending into one another until none are intelligible. He doesn't add to it but moves quickly through the space, ignoring his racing heart, shoving away the suit that tries to stop him, eyes searching, searching. Emergency personnel hover over the prone form of a young man with dark hair, and John's heart skips a beat, stutters and stops briefly before he gets close enough to see that it isn't Matt. It's not his Matt.

John turns in a slow circle, trying to breathe slowly, steadily, vaguely aware of and ignoring the tingle-pain in his hand, trying to stem the flood of rising frustration, anger, worry.

"McClane!"

John spins to his right, exhales in relief, but it is still several frantic moments before he is finally able to spot Matt in the crowd, perched on the edge of a carved wooden bench, wild-eyed and jittery. Several more until he can reach his side, touch him, run rough hands over his arms and card his fingers through his hair. Breathe in the scent of him and get his brain to believe that Matt is safe, alive, unharmed.

"You're hurt," Matt says, cold fingers trembling, spreading his palm, and John lets out a shaky laugh as he glances down, sees the bruises already forming on his hand from the ridges of his badge.

"Me?" He crouches next to Matt, shoves the badge into a pocket and rests his hand on Matt's thigh, warm and heavy. Squeezes once, firmly, when Matt's eyes drift to the body of one of the perps, tan T-shirt soaked black, open eyes staring vacantly at the sweeping arched ceiling. Matt's eyes dart back to his and John presses his lips together, squeezes again. "What about you?"

"I'm okay," Matt murmurs, words belying the blooming discoloration on his face, the stiffness of his spine. "I… I kept my head down. Some of the others…" His throat works for a moment, and when he tries to turn his head away, back to the mayhem of blood and bone, John rises, sits next to him on the bench, presses a firm hand to his jaw and eases Matt's face back toward him. He shifts to block Matt's view of the dead kid in the tan shirt, of the woman in the floral dress sprawled in a bright patch of sunlight, of the paramedics working hurriedly at her side. Matt's fingers clutch on to his wrist like a lifeline, and John slides a thumb gently along his cheek, carefully avoiding the spreading bruise.

"John," Matt says slowly, "some of the others weren't so lucky."

"I know, kid," John says, and when Matt shudders he draws him lightly into his arms. The place stinks of cordite, of the thick copper tang of blood and bodily fluids, but John buries his face in Matt's shoulder and breathes in the clean, fresh smell of him. Presses a careful kiss to the side of his neck and vows, again, never to let him go.

When Matt pulls away his eyes are clearer, and his limbs have stopped their nervous dance, and when his eyes drift again to the scattered survivors, to the sprawled body of the dead boy, John doesn't try to stop him.

"I'm okay," he says again, almost to himself. He lets out a breath and tries for a smile, which comes out lopsided and shaky, and John wants to gather him up, take him home, wrap him up and keep him there, safe. And he knows that would go over with Matt just about as well as it went over with Holly, but that doesn't mean he can't still wish for it.

"I'm okay, but I gotta tell you, McClane, seriously? I am really tired of getting shot at."

John arches a brow, studies the smudge on Matt's cheek before letting his gaze drift to Matt's side. He's been in enough brawls and battles to know the signs of bruised, maybe fractured, ribs when he sees them.

"I'm _really_ okay," Matt repeats, and John mostly believes him. Doesn't mean he's not going to get him thoroughly checked out, though.

"I'm getting you to the hospital," John says.

Matt opens his mouth to protest, and John already knows how this is going to go. Matt will deny that there is anything wrong with him, and John will insist that they get him examined anyway. Matt will continue to protest, ostensibly because he believes most modern medicine is a sham, an opinion that he'll express using a lot of words that will make John's head hurt, but really because he hates needles and being poked and prodded, a little bit of knowledge that John will wisely keep to himself. And in the end John will win and all of Matt's protests will be for naught, because John is bigger and older and stronger and more fucking determined that some hacker kid who just happens to own his heart.

John opens his mouth to tell Matt all of this, which is exactly when the screams start.

John rises and pulls his gun in one fluid motion, and when Matt stands too he pushes the kid behind him purely on instinct, his gaze already trained on the gaggle of bodies on the far side of the lobby.

"Stay here," he orders, glances over his shoulder until it looks like Matt will reluctantly stay put, soothes the harshness of his tone with a nod and a grim smile.

He makes his way quickly across the slick marble floor, eyes automatically noting the placement of milling people, of prone bodies and red exit signs, his weapon firm in his grip. He pushes past a dazed woman clutching an oversized handbag, eyes wide in her pale face, blood pressure cuff hanging lank around her thick arm as the paramedic next to her stands shell-shocked and open-mouthed, staring past them both at something in the crowd. John begins to urge the woman back with soft words; shoves her hard to the floor and moves into a slow run when the cries of his fellow officers ordering someone to "stand down" are overshadowed by gunfire.

He reaches the perimeter of the loose group of survivors in time to see the man in the dark business suit fly backward and stagger to his knees, the multiple gunshots shredding his chest, sending gouts of blood flying in a graceless arc toward the overhead skylights. He is in time to see the woman that the businessman had attacked -- had _bitten_ \-- arch her back, mouth open in a soundless scream, legs scissoring staccato on the floor as the convulsions start. He is in time to see one of the paramedics rush to the woman's side, press his hand to the gushing wound and call for a stretcher.

He is in time to see the businessman lurch to his feet, his chest a bloody gaping maw, hands hooked into claws that fasten onto the shoulders of the nearest cop and almost pull him off his feet as his mouth opens wide, wide. Opens to feed.

Somewhere behind him there are other battles, other screams, a flurry of motion, but for John time slows down, a ponderous ticking of the clock in his head. There is only him and this man -- this thing, that should be dead and isn't -- and he swivels his neck, sights down the barrel and aims for the head.

He's been in enough gun battles to know to trust what he sees even if his brain doesn't want to believe it, and he's seen enough Romero movies to know the rules.

The bullet takes the businessman directly above the right eye, blood and bone and grey matter splattering into the face of the hapless cop. The cop shrieks and struggles, all of his training shattered in the wake of this sudden madness. John watches as he crashes to the floor, a slow-motion tangle of limbs, and lands on top of the businessman who is dead now, truly dead.

"Really, most sincerely dead," John mutters to himself, because fuck, they really aren't in Kansas anymore.

The thud of the bodies hitting the floor snaps him back to himself, to the screams of the living. To the low guttural moans of the dead.

He spins again, keeping his gun steady and trying to take in everything at once.

The paramedic thrusts out a hand, eyes rolling back in his head as he's crushed in the grip of the woman he was trying to help, her mouth fastened on his shoulder. John winces when he hears the crunch of bone, but he has a bead on the woman, finger already tightening on the trigger when a flailing arm catches him in the shoulder, shoves him to the side. And then the shot is gone, the crowd breaking around him in waves, and he has one last glimpse of the paramedic before he is lost in the sea of screaming people.

John darts to his right to avoid the clutching arms of a blank-faced man, feels the sudden gust of warm July air as the bank doors are pushed open and more officers rush inside to join the fray. He stands still amidst the flood of bodies in motion, survivors scrambling for the doors… and the others, stumbling but relentless, eyes vacant. Eager to feed.

Part of him wishes that it was all in his head, stress causing him to crack just like the department shrinks always said he would.

But if there is one thing John knows, it is to think outside the box. He has always coloured outside the lines. It is the thing that has earned him multiple commendations (and suspensions) over the course of his career. It is the thing that's kept him alive. To deny this will get him killed.

All around him, the dead rise.

He needs to set a perimeter. (Find Matt.) Gather the survivors. (Make sure Matt is all right.) Establish contact with the precinct. (Get to Matt.)

Another thing John knows is to listen to his heart.

He spins on his heel, comes face to snarling face with one of the dead. He blinks and the thing is upon him, too close for the gun, so John does the only thing he can think of. He snaps his head forward, crushes his forehead into the face of the man, the thing that was once a man, and watches in satisfaction as the thing collapses dazed to its knees. He ignores the ringing in his ears as he dashes around the undead thing, heads for the other side of the lobby and the bench and Matt. Tell himself as he runs, pushes past clawing hands and gaping mouths, that Matt is smart. Matt is strong and fast and young. Matt will be all right.

But he still can't stop himself from yelling for Matt, screaming his name, even though he knows that his cries are lost among all the others.

The bench is empty when he reaches it.

John always thought he knew fear, thought nothing could be worse than watching his wife inexorably pulled toward an open window thirty stories from the ground, to watching that gun in Gruber's hand slowly rise as he struggled with her watch. But this is a snake curled in his belly, a coldness in his limbs, the taste of bitter ash on his tongue.

He knows now that there are worse things than death.

He swipes a hand over his head, turns in a slow circle and Matt is there, thank Christ Matt is there. The kid has backed himself up against the long wide counter, trying to hike himself up and over, his weak leg buckling beneath him as he flails at the thing that's trying to reach him. Trying to bite him.

It's the perp in the tan shirt, of course it is, and it doesn't matter than ten minutes ago he was lying dead on the floor, lifeless eyes staring upward. Now he is alive, or undead, and John doesn't give a fuck what he calls him because in about five seconds he's going to be so much mincemeat on the nice marble floor.

John goes in fast, grabs the thing by the collar and tugs. Thin fabric rips as the boy in the tan shirt thrashes in his grip, and then John is flinging the thing backward, gun rising fluidly as the boy regains his footing, stumbles hungrily toward him, teeth snapping.

The shot takes off the top of the perp's head, and John has spun back toward Matt before the boy even hits the ground. He gathers Matt in his arms, touching him wherever he can reach, exhales a heavy breath before he pulls back to look into his eyes. "Did he--" he starts, and he can't finish because he _knows_ the rules, and maybe this won't be just like a movie. But maybe it will.

"Fuck, John," Matt breathes. "They're zombies, right? They're really fucking zombies. Oh fuck."

Matt fingers comb restlessly through his hair, and John has a memory flash of that morning, of standing side by side in the bathroom, teasing Matt about cutting his hair. John _loves_ his hair, loves the way it feels between his fingers, loves to tug on it when they fuck, loves the way Matt is constantly flipping it out of his eyes. He makes a mental promise to tell him that, to tell him everything that he doesn't say, if only--

Matt's breathing is heavy, his eyes darting anxiously around the room, and John tightens his grip on Matt's arms, shakes him none too gently.

"Matt!" he shouts. "Did he--?"

He watches Matt's eyes go wide, because John prefers westerns and old-time gangster flicks starring guys like Cagney and Bogart. And all those horror movies John's watched in the last three years? They belong to Matt.

"No!" Matt says vehemently. "No. I'm fine! It didn't bite me. Because if it had bitten me, that would be a world of bad. So that's a big no on the biting thing. Oh fuck, what if it had bitten me? I kept trying to get over the counter and my stupid fucking leg wouldn't--"

John laughs in relief, tugs him forward, shuts him up with a quick kiss before releasing him. "How many times," he says, "have I told you never to put your back to the wall, kid?"

Matt rolls his eyes. "You're going to lecture me on fighting techniques _now_?"

"Wrong place, wrong time?" John asks.

"But definitely the right guy," Matt says, and then he is grasping John's shoulder, yanking him almost off his feet. John curses as he stumbles into the counter, whirls in time to see Matt kick out with his good leg, catching a zombie in the stomach and sending him spinning backward with a snarl. John tries to turn back, but Matt is upon him before he can do more than reach for his gun, snagging his hand and pulling him toward the door.

"No heroics," Matt says as he pulls him forward. "We need backup. 'Cause McClane? That was one of them. The bank robbers? And I might be new to this saving the world thing, but I'm pretty sure the bad guys aren't supposed to get up and try to eat you."

The doors are still propped open, and John is almost surprised to feel the warm summer breeze, to hear a bird chirping somewhere beyond the noise of the milling crowd and the chatter of the police radios. Outside the doors there is a still a world of light, and Matt is right. He needs to inform the others of what is happening, get inside with a properly equipped team of sharpshooters, take out the zombies and anyone they've infected. He doesn't want to think about what would happen if this thing spread beyond the bank.

The wind gusts, bringing with it the sweet smell of roses and a thin skim of ash. And in the distance, John thinks he hears a scream.


End file.
